


Blue Collar Kind of Love

by NaughtySammyBoy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Asshole parents, Description of past assault, Dirty Talk, F/M, Implied Blowjobs, Mention of Past Abuse, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Sex on a friggin' beanbag, Smut, Sweet Sex, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Fingering, a little come play, a little spanking, allusion to abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-10 14:44:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8921140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaughtySammyBoy/pseuds/NaughtySammyBoy
Summary: You’re a girl who was, for lack of a better word, born with a silver spoon in her mouth. There comes a day when the life you lead and the life your parents envision for you suddenly becomes suffocating, leaving you empty and seeking something different. Different comes in the form of Sam Winchester, a young mechanic working in his uncle’s shop. He wears grease stains instead of suits, lives in a double-wide in a trailer park instead of a fancy mansion, and shows you what a real man is like. What will life be like with Sam? Well, if anyone asked you, you’d just smile.





	1. Blue Collar Kind of Love

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys like this little mini series! It will either be a three-parter or a four, I haven't decided yet lol enjoy :)

You pick carelessly at the food sitting before you,  
not caring if the cook your mother overpaid had spent all day preparing the meal. The prongs of the expensive silver fork on your hand scrape against the porcelain plate, causing your mother to shriek and admonish your actions. “Quit being a child and eat, Y/N,” she says, “All that noise is giving me a migraine.” You simply roll your eyes and mutter an insincere apology before shoving some pot roast in your mouth, sighing at the unflavored taste of the meat. Would it kill Chef David to toss a little salt in the pot?

“Oh, speaking of migraines,” your father  
tuts, smiling as if he’d just told the most hysterical joke the world’s ever heard. “The auto shop called before dinner,” he looks over at you, “Your car is ready for pickup. I’ll send Gerald to retrieve it in the morning, that way you’ll have it in time for tomorrow afternoon’s rendezvous with the Alexander.“ 

Just as your father goes into a heated debate about why he’ll never buy another Lexus, you pipe up with, “Don’t bother with Gerald, I can go get it myself, daddy.” He looks at you with skeptical eyes. “I’ll just call a cab in the morning and ride into town,” you explain, “It’s really no trouble.” You look down at your plate, hiding your face when you add, “And I, um, I broke up with Alexander.”

“What?” Both your parents reply in high voices, their forks clinking against their plates in shock. “But why?” Your mother butts her nose in, “Alexander is perfect!”

“I went to a lot of trouble to make this courtship happen,” your father adds in a hard tone, pointing a finger at you as if you were a child. “His parents are good people, and they come from a great breed,” he goes on, sounding like he’s trying to sell something to you, “You could be set for life if you married Alexander, do you not get that, young lady?”

Your face burns with anger, your eyes welling up with tears that sting with their heat. You try to hide the tremble in your voice when you say, “But what about what _I_ _want_ , daddy? What if I don’t _want_ to marry some stuffy businessman who treats people like dirt? What if I don’t _want_ to be some girl who settles for what _other people_ want for me? Why can’t I just find it on my own?” You stop your rambling, choking back a sob. Your heart breaks when your father scoffs in response, effectively telling you that you’re an idiot without actually saying the words out loud. 

“I’ll leave some cash on the table in the front room,” he says without any sign of caring, wiping the corners of his mouth before standing. “In the morning, you will go into town, get your car, and present yourself at the Donahue’s and explain to Alexander that you made a mistake. I’ll hear no excuses or disapproval.” He turns his back, leaving you to sit and think about how you wished you were someone else’s daughter. 

“We just want what’s best for you, darling,” you mother says in a pseudo-sweet voice, “You understand, don’t you?”

You look at her with betrayal flashing in your eyes, sniffing back tears before shoving back your chair and rushing up to your room, slamming the door with all your strength. In the bathroom, you strip off your shirt, using the freshly-cleaned mirror to examine the dotting of bruises thatdecorate each hip, ones that are shaped like unforgiving fingertips. Your chin trembles as you trace a single finger over them, your eyes slamming shut as you try to steady your breathing. You cup your right cheek, still able to feel the phantom stinging and heat that had been left behind by a large hand, the one of someone you thought you could trust.

“No one knows what’s best for me,” you say bitterly to yourself, anger sizzling through your veins as you look at your reflection, “No one.”  


* * *

The next morning is crisp, the beginnings of autumn greeting you as you step out of the house and towards the cab awaiting you. “105 Delaware Drive, please,” you tell the driver, settling back in the seat and staring out the window, looking at the place you had called home since you were a little girl—suddenly aware that it had never felt more like trap in your life. Your father’s demands ring in your ears, making your stomach twist in knots that make you feel sick.  
  
“Here you are, miss,” the driver eventually says, causing you to realize that you had zoned out for the entire ride. You smile in response and hand him double the fare, politely refusing when he tries to return the unnecessary half. He thanks you profusely and with so much sincerity, that it makes you feel like you had actually done something right for a change.   
  
You watch him leave, turning to look at the auto shop that’s apparently called Singer’s if the flashing sign on the front of the building is any indication. The bell above the door rings out obnoxiously when you enter, your pointed-toe heels clicking against the linoleum floor of what you presume is the reception area. An older woman sits behind the desk there, flipping through a Cosmopolitan magazine and popping gum between her teeth. “What can I help ya with, little lady?” She asks in a guttural voice, her smoking habit evident in not only the way she speaks but also in the wafts of cigarettes mixed cheap perfume coming off her.  
  
“I’m here to get my car,” you tell her with a wobbling smile that you hope looks believable, “They called my father yesterday and said it was done.” You jump in shock when the woman turns her head and shouts out a name that is unfamiliar to you, a loud crash and a string of colorful words following the outburst.   
  
“What in the sevens hells got’s you hollerin’ for me, woman?” A gruff voice says before an equally as gruff man appears, his beard scraggly and his greying hair hidden beneath a weathered ball cap.   
  
“Got a girl here askin’ for her car, says her daddy got a call,” the woman says back in a humored tone that kind of sounds like mocking to you. “Take her back and let the boys get her all set up,” she says, and for a moment, that sounds a little dangerous to your sheltered ears, like it had another meaning than you just getting your car and hightailing the hell out of dodge.   
  
“Balls,” the gruff man says under his breath before adding in an annoyed voice, “Them damn boys’ve been gettin’ on my nerves all day. Why can’t you do it?” He looks at the woman expectantly.   
  
“Can’t,” she smiles a yellow, crooked smile at him, “Got some calls to make.”  
  
“Sure you do,” he rolls his eyes before turning to look at you, giving you and your fancy clothes a once over. “This way, girl,” he says, turning his back to you. You hurry to follow him, clutching your purse to your chest as you disappear down a poorly lit hallway. “Name’s Bobby,” the man tells you as you keep a good distance between the two of you. “I take it you’re the owner of the Lexus we took care of,” he says, giving you a warm smile.   
  
You shallow your nerves. “What makes you say that?” You curl in on yourself again when the man laughs a hearty laugh.   
  
“Not many people ‘round this part of town own that kinda car or wear the kinda clothes you’re currently sportin’,” he explains, “No offense.”  
  
“None taken,” you pout, gasping and blinking rapidly when Bobby stops to open a random door and bright light fills your eyes. When you’re adjusted to the brightness, you see it’s a large workshop filled with tools, cars with hoods up, various used and new car parts, and old rock music. You recognize the last lines of the ACDC song, smiling despite yourself and following Bobby a little closer in the new environment. You hear laughing and loud voices, followed by pops and snaps. Bobby stops abruptly and you have to quickly stop your feet as to not ram into his back.  
  
“Would you idjits stop snapping those damn rags at each other and get the Lexus ready to go?” Bobby questions the boys you haven’t seen for yourself yet, sounding rather exasperated. “Can’t leave you two alone for five minutes without you destroyin’ my whole shop.”  
  
“Oh, c'mon, Bobby!” One voice says, “We’ve been working our asses off all day!”  
  
“Yeah, Grumps!” Another says, “Give us a break!”  
  
Bobby sighs and steps aside, revealing you to the boys, who both stop talking entirely and look at you like you’re an alien in their world. You can’t help but notice that behind all the grease smudges and tattered navy coveralls, the two boys—no _men_ —are rather attractive. The shorter one has his coveralls unzipped and the top half hanging down around his hips to reveal a greased up white t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, his dirty blonde hair fallen flat with sweat and his angular face glistening with it and more grease. The taller one, the one with bright eyes and floppy brown hair, is looking at you with parted lips and is currently wringing a dirty rag between his blackened hands rather nervously.  
  
“This little lady wants her car,” Bobby tells them, “So do me a solid and don’t embarrass me and my entire business in front of her, yeah?” You watch the two men simply nod and straighten up. “Follow Sam and Dean,” Bobby tells you in a soft voice, “They’ll make sure your car’s ready to go and get you outta here.”  
  
“Th-Thank you, Mister Bobby,” you give him an unsure smile.  
  
“Just Bobby’ll do, girl,” he winks before disappearing between tall shelves of tools and various other car related things. You sigh and turn back to the boys, noticing them whispering and shushing one another when the other gets too loud. You clear your throat after a while, growing a little impatient as you itch to just get out of this damn shop.   
  
“Huh? Oh yeah, yeah, um,” the blonde quickly says, “Sammy’ll take care of you.” He walks away and you start to say something but he’s gone before you can, leaving you confused as to why he left so abruptly. You look at the one left—Sammy supposedly—and give him a bashful smile. His cheeks are tinted pink, leaving you to believe he may be just as bashful as you’re being.  
  
“Your car,” he nods, clearing his throat, “It’s um, this way.” He spins on his heels and begins walking away, prompting you to hurry and catch up, cursing yourself for wearing heels and Sammy as well, because he’s got long legs that could beat you anywhere—not that you were _looking_ or anything. God, your mother would have a heart attack if you brought a boy like him home, and your father—holy shit—he’d probably disown you before you even told him what Sammy’s name was.  
  
After following Sammy around all of God’s creation it seemed like, your sleek, white Lexus finally comes into view. It looks shinier than ever, the purity of the color gleaming in the bright shop lights. “We threw in a free wash and wax, and we, uh, even cleaned out the interior, vacuumed and such,” Sammy rambles, occupying most of his attention with cleaning a few fingerprints off the glistening windshield with a fresh rag he magically pulls from the pocket of his coveralls. “The rims looked a little dull when she came in, so we polished those off as well,” he explains further, finally looking at you and giving you a wobbly smile, “She should run smoothly now, but if you notice any problems, just come back and we’ll get those taken care of.”  
  
You genuinely smile this time. “Thanks, Sammy,” you say.  
  
“Just Sam,” he corrects you, quickly following it up with, “My idiot brother just calls me that to piss me off.”  
  
“Oh, um,” you look at him with unsure eyes, “I’m sorry?”  
  
“No big deal,” Sam smiles, averting his gaze to the floor when he realizes he’s been staring too long. “Well, um,” he sniffs as he places the keys in your hands, “Have a good day.”  
  
“You, t— _oh_ ,” comes your reply when he moves to open the driver’s side door when you round the front of your car. “Thank you,” you nod politely before climbing in.  
  
“Bye,” Sam says, looking at you just a little bit longer before finally closing the door for you.   
  
“O-kayyy,” you say to yourself as you fasten your seat belt and shove the key in the ignition. And as you pull away from the garage, you look in the rear view to see Sam still standing there watching you leave, suddenly struck with the realization that part of you didn’t _want_ to leave.  
  
_Shit._


	2. Dreams of Grease & Dimples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You find yourself back at Singer’s knowing exactly what’s led you there. When Sam asks you out, you’re not expecting what happens next.
> 
> Or maybe you are.

_Black smudges across your thighs in the wake of strong hands, the calloused skin of them making you feel warm and tingly all over. Gasps and moans fall from your mouth as a pair of candy pink lips trail up your neck, teeth catching over your bounding pulse as dirty, greedy hands shove your skirt up roughly, revealing you and your slick need to his darkened kalisoscope eyes._  
  
_“Sammy.”_  
  
You startle awake, breathing erratically and pressing your thighs together. Oh god, you’re _soaked_. Heat fills your cheeks, embarrassment scorching through your veins as you climb out of bed and disappear into your bathroom. You pull off your ruined panties and skimpy tank top, deciding that a shower is in order—maybe a cold one.   
  
Downstairs, breakfast is already on the table, probably more than your family needs but of course, a simple meal just won’t do in this house. You settle for a bagel and some fresh fruit, ignoring the pointed looks your parents are currently giving you. You chew slowly as you stare at the wall across the room like you’re in deep thought, just to piss them off.  
  
“So, Y/N,” your father finally says with a faked humorous voice, “I called Walter Donahue yesterday, and he so graciously informed me that you never came.” He gives you a moment to react, gritting his teeth in anger when you say nothing and continue to eat. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” he demands, giving you a hard look when you obey, a careless smile on your face, “Care to explain to me why you deliberately disobeyed me?”  
  
“Because, daddy,” you shrug, “Telling Alexander that I made a mistake would have simply been a lie.” Both your mother and father gape at you in horror. “When _actually_ , the only mistake I made was listening to you and allowing _you_ to make me go out with him. Alexander is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most vile, boring, and self-centered man I have ever had the displeasure of knowing and associating myself with.” You stuff a large piece of bagel into your mouth before saying with some difficulty, “Thanks for breakfast,” and leaving the table.  
  
“Y/N!” Your father shouts, “You get back in here this _instant_!“   
  
You act blissfully unaware, retreating back up the stairs to get ready for the day.

* * *

When you end up pulling into the parking lot of Singer’s a few days later, you’re left wondering how you got there. It might have had something to do with the fact that you had Googled ‘how to deactivate the gas gauge in a car on purpose’ just for an excuse to be there. As it turns out, it was far more complicated than simply disconnecting a few random wires, so you settled on just getting some air put in your tires. They _did_ look a little low, and it _had_ been the only thing the auto shop hadn’t catered to when your car had been in the first time.  
  
The same woman is at the reception desk, this time wearing a name tag with ‘Rita’ embossed on it. “Well, well, look who’s back,” she smiles, “Something wrong with that fancy car of yours again already?”  
  
“Just wanting to get some air for my tires,” you tell her.  
  
“You came all the way here just for some air in yer tires?” She questions you, her heavily made up eyes filled with skepticism. “Hun, you coulda gone to any ol’ regular gas station for that. Why come here?”  
  
Your cheeks go pink. “Well, I,” you clear your throat, “Maybe I just wanted professionals to do it. Ever think of _that_?”  
  
Rita laughs. “Yeah, _professionals_ ,” she sighs humorously, “If that’s what you wanna call ‘em. I just call ‘em ‘Idiot One’ and ‘Idiot Two.’” She spins in her chair and shouts, “I need some assistance! Got a pretty lady in here wantin’ some air!”  
  
“Pipe down, Rita!” A familiar voice calls back. You smile when Bobby comes grumbling in. “Oh, miss Lexus,” he greets you, “Didn’t expect to see you back in here.”  
  
“Well, I—”  
  
“She’s just wantin’ some air for her tires,” Rita interrupts you, brows raised when she says, “But my guess is that ain’t _really_ what brings her in.”  
  
You look at her in shock. “Excuse me?” You bring your arms up to cross them over your chest, your eyes narrowing. “And just what is _that_ supposed to mean?”  
  
“Nothin’ really, sweets,” she smiles coyly, “You’re not the first girl to come waltzin’ in here wantin’ to get her eyeful of dumber and dumbest back there.”  
  
“Hey!” You shoot back, “That is _not_ —”  
  
“Okay, okay,” Bobby pipes in, “Let’s retract the claws ladies, ‘cause breakin’ up catfights is way outta my pay grade.” He points a finger at Rita and adds, “And you stop bein’ a hag to payin’ customers, don’t need you drivin’ ‘em away.” Rita just grins and shakes her head, going back to reading that magazine in front of her. “C'mon, girl,” Bobby commands, “Let’s get your car pulled into the shop.“   
  
Minutes later, you park in the garage, climbing out of the driver’s seat just as Sam comes walking up. “Hey,” he greets you with a dimpled smile, “What’re you doin’ back so soon?”  
  
“Air. Tires.” Bobby rolls his eyes at the obvious attraction between the two of you. “Hop to it, boy,” he tells Sam, “And put them heart eyes back in your damn head while you’re at it.” His words make both you and Sam blush various shades of red, the atmosphere a little awkward once Bobby leaves the two of you alone.   
  
“He’s joking,” Sam tries to cover.  
  
“It’s fine,” you reply, finding your nerve when you add, “I, um, I like your eyes.“   
  
Sam’s dimples deepen as his smile grows, his eyes casted down at the ground as he kicks a booted-foot out. “Thanks,” he says, pushing the hair out of his face. “Right,” he quickly collects himself, “You need air in your tires. Let me get on top'a that.”  
  
_I know something else you can get on top of._

Your blush deepens as you mentally scold yourself for thinking like the girls your mother warned you about, the ones she forbade you from ever hanging out with. You watch with hooded eyes as Sam bends over to grab whatever it is he needs to get to work. “You could wait in the lobby if you’d like,” he says, “This won’t take long and it’s kinda boring to watch.”  
  
“I don’t mind watching,” you say, “That is, if you don’t mind me staying.”  
  
“Nah,” Sam smiles, “I don’t mind at all.”  
  
After thirty-something minutes of ogling Sam as he bends and squats around your car to fill the tires, he finally checks the pressure levels of all four and deems them acceptable. “How much do I owe you?” You ask him, pulling out your wallet.  
  
“We’ll just charge the card on file,” he says.  
  
“Oh, um, okay,” you reply, “Well, at least let me give you a tip for your work.”  
  
“No, really,” Sam smiles, gently stopping your hand from releasing the snap closure of your wallet, “You don’t have to go to all that trouble.” He watches you nod, looking a bit deflated from his rejection. “But, uh, instead of money, how’s about you let me make you dinner tonight?” He counteroffers, causing your eyes to snap back up to his, “I make a mean pot roast with all the fixin’s.”  
  
You take a moment to ponder the offer, more so taking some time to calm your galloping heartbeat. “Okay,” your bashful voice accepts, “I’d like that.”  
  
Sam grins so big that his eyes and nose do this cute little scrunchy thing, and you try to think if you’ve ever seen such a contagious smile before, ultimately deciding you’ve seen not a one quite as good as Sam’s before. 

“Sweet,” he finally says, “Gimme your number and I’ll text you the address.” You write it down on some random receipt you find at the bottom of your purse, handing the crumpled paper over to him with a smile.  
  
“See you tonight?” Sam asks, giving you a playful wink when you simply nod eagerly at him and continue to smile like an absolute idiot.

* * *

“And just where do you think you’re going, young lady?“   
  
You sigh heavily at your father’s question as your hand stills on the front door’s handle, thinking to yourself that you wish the floor would just swallow him whole and belch up scraps of the stupid Polo shirt and khaki chinos he’s wearing. He’s looking at you with narrowed eyes, his arms crossed over his chest as he taps a foot against the newly polished floors, patiently waiting for your answer.  
  
“Out,” you say simply.  
  
“Oh, is that right?” He further questions, “And where exactly is it you plan on going?”  
  
You look at the smug look on his face, deciding that you’d just be honest and really piss him off. “I’ve got a date,” you tell him, smirking like an asshole.  
  
“With _who_?” He bellows, “I don’t recall approving a date. Just who on earth are you going out with?”  
  
“Sam Winchester,” you shrug, “I met him over at the auto shop when I picked up my car the other day. He’s making me dinner.”  
  
A furious red colors your father’s face. “You most certainly are _not_ allowing that _scoundrel_ to make you dinner!” He insists, “The Winchester family is nothing but hicks and trash, and I’ll be damned if you associate yourself with the likes of them. The only thing they’re good at is fixing cars and being heathens.“   
  
You scoff. “How would you know anything about them?” You shoot back, “You’re always too busy kissing the asses of those snobs at the country club or trying to get your golf score just right. You don’t know Sam or _anyone_ in his family well enough to make those kind of comments.”  
  
“I know enough!” He barks, “You are _my_ daughter and I forbid you from seeing this boy.”  
  
You narrow your eyes at him, pursing your lips and gritting your teeth. “What are you gonna do? Take away my trust fund?” You deadpan sarcastically, “You can’t control me forever, daddy, so just get over it.” You give him one more bitchy smile before opening the front door and disobeying his every demand. You ignore his shouting and ranting as you climb into your car and peel out of the driveway, kicking up dust and pebbles as you go.  
  
Your GPS takes you to the opposite side of town, the one you had heard rumors about. The one people said was home to every druggie, hooker, and criminal there was to find in your state. But when you pull into Shady Shoals, a mobile home park, you honestly don’t see what everyone was talking about. The identical double wide trailers look nice in their neat little rows with their cute deck-like porches, and it wasn’t nearly as unsettling as you had heard. And when you finally find Sam’s place, you’re more excited than you had been in a while.   
  
Sam opens up his door with a bright smile, immediately inviting you into the warmth of his home, graciously taking your coat and hanging it on the antique-y looking coat-hanger next his door. “A gift from my mama,” he says sheepishly, awkwardly pointing at the piece of furniture that looks as though it’s been made from the trunk of a slim tree. He grins when you tell him it’s lovely, thanking you by guiding you into the neat little kitchen that’s a lot nicer than you had honestly expected. “The roast just came out of the oven,” he tells you, “Now we just gotta wait for the greens and cornbread to finish cooking.”  
  
“Wow,” you say when you see the small square table in the corner, decorated with tall taper candles adorned by flicking flames resting in the center, along with a small vase filled with various-colored wildflowers. “This is all so lovely,” you smile at Sam, realizing that you may need to come up with a new descriptive word.   
  
Sam nods, his cheeks going a little pink. “I don’t have any fancy wine or anything,” he laments, hoping to peak your interest when he adds a hopeful, “I’ve got beer, though. I might even have a wine cooler way in the back of the fridge or somethin’, I can check for you if you’d like me to.”  
  
“Beer’s fine,” you assure him, placing your hand on his upper arm, “Really, Sam, this is all,” you stop to look at the food cooking away on the stove, at the man-done but nonetheless cute table decorating, at Sam’s unsure face. “Everything’s perfect,” you finally say, “More than I could have asked for.”  
  
Sam releases a relieved billow of air through his nose, his shoulders relaxing as he shoots you another award-winning grin, his dimples as deep and butterfly-worthy as ever. He reaches up to sweetly tuck some stray hair behind your ear, his beautifully colored eyes looking into yours, like he’s trying to read your soul right there in the middle of his kitchen. Just as you both lean in, eyes falling shut and hearts hammering against ribcages, the timer on the oven begins to beep obnoxiously, breaking the spell both you and Sam were under.  
  
“I guess dinner’s ready,” Sam says in a whisper, still looking at you through hooded lids. “Beer, right?” He questions, grabbing your hands in his to squeeze them, telling you without spoken words that your interrupted moment would continue after dinner.   
  
“Right,” you say, squeezing his back, releasing them only when he pulls away to retrieve two beers and finish off dinner. You take a seat at the table, giggling when Sam comes up behind you moments later and places a plate in front of you, his lips pressed against your ear so he can whisper a playful, “Bon appétit.” You thank him by turning your head and catching his lips in a simple, dry kiss, catching him by complete surprise, and successfully leaving both of you wanting more when you pull back and grin stupidly at him. “What?” You question him innocently, “Don’t you know it’s custom to kiss the cook?”  
  
Sam just smirks, crouching down beside you and looking up with narrowed eyes. “You’re trouble, girl,” he says in a deeper voice, resting a hand on your knee and squeezing appreciatively.  
  
“Well, trouble _is_ my middle name,” you tell him, giggling when he rolls his eyes and stands back on his feet to retrieve a plate for himself and the two beers he’d set out.   
  
He takes his place across from you, being a true gentleman and popping your beer open before handing it to you with a smile. However, he quickly pulls it back before you can grab it. “You’re at least twenty-one, right?” He asks, “And you’re not a cop are you?”  
  
You just laugh a fully body laugh, covering your mouth when you realize you’ve become too loud. “Yes, I am,” you say as you reach over the table and yank the beer from his hand, “And no, I’m not.” You raise your eyebrows at him before bringing the bottle to your lips and pulling back a long, excessive sip.   
  
“Well, okay then,” Sam chuckles, raising his own bottle in cheers before drinking nearly half of it in one go. “We might need more of these,” he laughs as he sets it down, watching you take another sip with intrigue glittering in his eyes. He watches your throat works the brew down, the way your lips glisten with it when you pull the neck of the bottle away, how your eyes shine in the cheap candlelight filling his kitchen slash dining-room. “You’re beautiful,” he says before his brain can stop his mouth, his face going red with embarrassment.  
  
Your mouth falls open, your own cheeks pinking. “Thank you,” you respond in a soft voice, your heart doing a weird skipping thing you’ve never experienced before tonight. “You, too,” you say lamely, quickly following it up with a just as lame, if not lamer, “Handsome, I mean. I, um, I think you’re really handsome.”  
  
“Thanks,” Sam nods, reaching across the table to place his hand atop yours, and for a second, you think you’re dreaming, because things like this only happened in the fairy tales you read as a little girl. That magnetic pull with someone was only a figment of your imagination, right? Things like this didn’t happen in real life, did they? You couldn’t _possibly_ know someone is your soul mate just by simply looking into their eyes, could you? _No_ , you tried to tell yourself, _you’re just getting ahead of yourself_ , but it didn’t _really_ feel that way with Sam, it felt—you didn’t know—right? Destined?   
  
_Oh God, you’re imagining your life with this guy and all he’d_ said was that you were beautiful, for the love of Christ! Get it together, Y/N.  
  
“Well, we should eat before it gets cold,” you suggest, clearing your throat awkwardly as you pull your hand away from Sam’s and pick up a fork to dig into the delicious meal sitting in front of you. You try to act cool, but it fails when you take the first bite of roast, because _damn_ , Chef David couldn’t even _compete_. “For fuck’s sake!” You say around a mouthful of food, “He cooks perfectly, too!”  
  
“Huh?” Sam huffs a laugh.  
  
_Oh shit, did I just say that out loud?_  
  
“Yeah, you did,” Sam says, making you jump because you didn’t think you said _that_ aloud either. Were you losing your mind? “Didn’t take you for such a potty mouth,” he smiles, popping some meat into his mouth as well. “You okay?” He asks when he sees the way you swallow nervously. “You look a little…flushed.”  
  
“Oh,” you softly say, placing your hands on your cheeks to feel the heat radiating off them. “I’m fine,” you tell him, “I guess you calling me beautiful caught me a little off guard.” When Sam raises his eyebrows in confusion, it prompts you to add sheepishly, “No one has ever called me that, especially not a guy. I mean, my mom once said I was beautiful, but that was only because I’d won homecoming queen and got this really nice crown and stupid sash that had homecoming queen stamped on it.”  
  
Sam coughs to cover the laugh the comes out in a string of snorts. “That’s, uh, nice to know,” he says with a humored smile, “I’ve never slept with a homecomin’ queen before.”  
  
You sigh and slap a hand to your face in embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” you shake your head, laughing despite yourself. You look back at Sam, watching the way his eyes dance with amusement. “I think you just make me nervous,” you explain, “I mean, you’re the first guy to actually make me a nice meal instead of buying it, and you bought these cute little wildflowers—”  
  
“Actually, I got those from my garden,” Sam interrupts.  
  
“Your…you have a _garden_?” You ask incredulously, “Like, as in you planted these and picked them yourself?“   
  
“Mhm,” Sam nods simply.  
  
You lean back in your chair and throw your hands up. “Well, that settles it,” you say, slowly rising from your chair and rounding the table to grab Sam’s hand, tugging him up to his feet.  
  
“What’re you doin’?” He questions, forehead screwed up in confusion.  
  
“You’re sleeping with a homecoming queen,” you whisper, sliding your hands up his sides and pressing yourself up against his chest, your head tilted back and your lips brushing the underside of his stubbly chin.  
  
“Oh,” Sam responds breathlessly, looking down and cradling your head in his big hands. “But what about dinner?” He questions, his lips ghosting across your cheek towards your awaiting mouth.   
  
“You got a microwave?” You smile, your hands sliding up his strong back to fist the thin material of his shirt. Sam nods slowly, twisting his hands in your hair and parting his lips to trail his tongue along the swell of your bottom one. “Good,” you breathe into his mouth, kissing him soundly before pulling back to add, “We’ll just heat it up when we’re done.” You don’t give Sam time for a true reply, you just kiss him again and moan when he returns it back tenfold, letting you taste his tongue and feel how much he wants you every time he grinds his hips into yours.   
  
Sam wraps his arms around your waist, holding you close and kissing you hungrily as he guides you backwards, barely successful in not walking you into walls and furniture as he blindly leads you into the living room. You both topple down onto the couch rather ungracefully, your mouths never parting and your hands becoming more and more greedier with each passing second.   
  
“God,” you breathe when you pull back to rid Sam of his shirt, shaking like a leaf with pure, unadulterated desire, “I _never_ do this.”  
  
“What?” Sam pants, sitting up and resting back on his haunches as he works your jeans open so he can yank them down.  
  
“This,” you repeat, rising your hips to help him out, “Sleeping with a guy I barely know. It’s just not the kind of girl I am.“   
  
Sam stops entirely, breathing heavily and fisting the denim he had pulled down to your knees. “We can stop,” he says, sounding so sincere that it makes your chest grow tight with appreciation and adoration. He doesn’t look angry, or even disappointed, he just looks sweet and maybe a bit concerned.  
  
“No,” you say with a smile, looking up at him with soft eyes. “I don’t _want_ to stop,” you assure him as you sit up on your butt, your hands sliding up his chest and around his neck to pull him back down over you. “I want you, Sam,” you whisper in his ear, teasing the shell of it with your teeth, “I want you in every way.” When Sam doesn’t say anything, you call tell he’s still a bit unsure. You pull back and look him in the eye. “I promise,” you tell him, “If at any point I want to stop, you’ll be the first to know.”  
  
Sam nods, leaning into press a firm kiss to your lips. He continues to undress you, making your skin tingle and pucker with goosebumps when he runs his hands all over your newly exposed body. You gasp when his trails his mouth over the swells of your breasts, his tongue sneaking out to lavish your peaked nipples with wet, hot love. Your hands twist in his hair, your back arching when he sucks one into his mouth, making heat spark all throughout your body. It’s as though there’s a string connecting your nipples to your throbbing womanhood, and Sam’s some kind of musician plucking it to create beautiful melodies that are your moans and praises and pleas for more.  
  
Somehow, and without you even realizing, Sam’s gets you both completely naked, and the weight and heat of his hard, undoubtedly-above-average cock presses up against the fleshy softness of your inner thigh, making you gasp and roll down into it. Sam hisses, his teeth teasing the flesh covering your sternum and his hands sliding underneath your body to grab your ass greedily. Your breathing comes out unevenly as Sam moves farther and farther down your body, his nose soon running through the trimmed thatch of hair between your trembling thighs, his mouth open and ready against the most intimate part of you.  
  
“Oh my goodness!” You gasp, reaching back to grab the arm of the couch and rock your hips down against Sam’s face. No man’s ever done _this_ to you before. It almost feels foreign, like it was some kind of taboo thing that your mother would definitely _not_ approve of. “God,” you moan, tossing your head back when Sam slides his tongue through your swollen folds and teases at your weeping hole with it, his hands squeezing your inner thighs where he’s got them spread wide open. You feel hot all over when Sam pulls back to look at mess he’s made of you, like you should be embarrassed to have a man see you in this intimate of a way, but you’re _not_ embarrassed. If anything, the way Sam’s pupils dilate at the sight of your cunt glistening for him makes you feel sexy, like a woman who’s made a man _really_ want her.  
  
“So goddamn pretty, baby,” Sam growls, easily sliding a long, thick finger up inside you, pulling a straight up pornographic moan from your mouth as your inner walls flutter around the intrusion. “Fuck,” Sam says vehemently, “You’re so tight, darlin’, so _wet_. Can’t wait to have my cock inside this prefect pussy.” You gasp at the _utter_ vulgarity of his words, a new, unknown heat rising in your lower half. Sam chuckles lightly, gently easing a second fingers in to join the first, pumping them with a perfect speed and angle. “You like when I talk dirty to you?” He questions against your lower belly, his eyes trained on yours as his tongue reaches out to taste the saltiness of your slowly dampening skin.   
  
You nod, completely dazed by pleasure, your eyes fighting to stay open and on his amongst the continuous onslaught of it. “Oh, fuck!” You cry when Sam quickens his fingers inside you, hooking them a certain way to stimulate the spot inside you that causes white to spark in your vision and your hips to jerk wildly. Your world tilts on its head when Sam leans in to seal his mouth around your throbbing clit, a long, loud string of moans filtering out of your mouth as you’re hurled from the edge, helpless and willingly surrendered to the magic of Sam’s mouth and fingers.  
  
“God, you’re a fuckin’ goddess,” Sam breathes as he quickly climbs back up your body to kiss you hungrily, his tongue slipping between your lips so you can taste yourself on him. He doesn’t waste any time in slotting his hips between your thighs, shoving a powerful hand between your bodies to position his cock and push himself all the way inside you with one slick, fluid push. You’re at a loss for words, still not entirely down to earth from your previous orgasm, your mouth open in a perfect O shape as you look up at Sam with hooded eyes, the heft of his cock dragging so sweetly against your ridiculously wet, velvety walls. “Look at you,” Sam praises, a little look of pride on his face, “Takin’ my cock so well. Feels like a fuckin’ dream bein’ inside you, baby girl.”  
  
You sob in pleasure, tangling your hands in his hair when he presses his forehead against yours and rocks into you deeply, your body thrumming with so much ecstasy that you could wax poetic about it for the rest of your life. “So good, Sam,” you cry for him, “It feels so good.” You look up into his eyes, noticing the way they flutter, and how these amazing little sounds keep coming out of his mouth. It’s nearly enough to make you come again. “Please, Sam,” you whimper, pressing your knees against his sides, changing the angle in which he’s fucking you with in just the slightest way, “Fuck me _harder_.”  
  
Sam moans gutturally, pressing his hands into the cushion on either side of your head and bracing one feet on the floor, using it for the leverage needed to really pound into you. “Like this?” Sam questions in a rough voice, “This hard enough for you, darlin’?”  
  
“Never enough!” You gasp, “I’ll never get enough, Sam!” You lie there and take everything he offers you, feeling like such a needy vixen for him, and by this point, him and that cock of his has got you speaking such nonsense and filth, that you’re bound to blush every single time you recall this very moment. “Fuck me, Sam,” you plead, looking right into his eyes when you say in a salacious voice, “Make me yours. Fuckin’ ruin me, baby.”  
  
“Hoh-ly _fuck!_ ”Sam calls, his hips stuttering from shock at your words before he forces himself to get back with program. “Gonna come,” he tells you, rocking a bit quicker, “Gonna come just for you, pretty girl. That what you want?”  
  
“Yes!” You cry, feeling the pressure build between your hips, “Come inside me, Sam. Fill me up—please!” Your eyes roll back when he gets a hand between your legs to rub your clit, sending wave after wave of pleasure crashing inside away inside you. Soon after, Sam moans deeply and a different kind of warmth fills you, making you come harder than you ever have in your life. You pull Sam into a kiss, one that’s more so just open mouths slipping and sliding against each other as you both writhe and buck through your releases, with stars in your eyes and fire in your veins as you cling to each other.  
  
Everything feels fuzzy and faint and you don’t even really notice when Sam gently pulls out of you, his large body squeezing between yours and the back of the sofa. He positions you with easy strength so that your back is pressed tightly against his slick chest, your jellified legs tangling with his and his wet, softening cock pressing into your ass. He peppers your neck in lazy kisses, nuzzling under your jaw as you both bask in the post-coital bliss that surrounds you like an airy cloud.  
  
“How you feelin’?” Sam asks in a soft voice, mouth right against your ear, one of his hands trailing along your hip and lower belly.  
  
You just smile, letting your eyes drift closed in delight. “Hungry,” you finally say, lazily shifting onto your back, laughing with Sam and pulling him in for the millionth kiss you’ve shared tonight.


	3. Welcome To The Park

You awake in a bed that isn’t yours, inside a house that most certainly is not your own. Instead of pristine white sheets, your blanketed by a black and red striped comforter that’s been softened by one too many washes, lying atop navy blue sheets completely nude and a stickiness between your thighs that stands as a reminder of the kind of night you had. You rouse from the bed when the aroma of bacon meets your nose, a lazy, carefree smile tugging at your sleep-swollen lips. You rub at your eyes and attempt to smooth down your bedhead as you guide yourself out of the bedroom, making a quick stop in the bathroom to relieve yourself and clean up a bit before finally venturing into the kitchen.

Sam stands at the stove, just as naked as you, flipping the sizzling bacon and tapping his foot along with the beat of some old rock classic that’s playing on the staticy radio by the sink. You admire his form—the golden expanse of his strong back, the curves of his bare ass, and the wild mop of hair atop his head that desperately needs a good comb through. Your smile only grows as you sneak up behind him and wrap your arms around his narrow waist, giggling into the space between his shoulder blades when he jumps and drops the spatula in shock.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” you grin, pressing your cheek against his back and breathing in the scent of him. Sam’s chuckle vibrates through you as he turns to pull you up against his chest, his powerful arms cradling you in a blanket of warmth. His lips ghost across your forehead and he sweetly noses at your hairline, his hands trailing down your sides and making you giggle at the way it tickles your bare skin. You look up into his eyes, loving the little smile on his face. “I had a really good time with you last night,” you say softly, stretching up on your tiptoes to nuzzle your nose along his, “I’ve never had so much fun with someone before.”  
  
Sam gives you a gentle smile. “Well, the fun’s not over just yet, sweetheart,” he reaches behind himself to turn off the burning eye on the stove, “Breakfast is served.” He gives your ass a playful swat when you pull away and turn your back to him, laughing when you look over your shoulder and wrinkle your nose at him in faux distaste. You disappear into the living room to pluck your abandoned panties from the ground and pull them on, along with the large tee Sam had left there as well the night before, also grabbing his boxers before meeting him back in the kitchen.  
  
“Thanks,” he winks when you toss them at his chest, his hands quick to catch them. He bends at the waist and tucks his feet into the legs, jumping a bit when he yanks them up, a boyish grin on his face. “Hey, um,” he starts as he takes a seat across from you at the table, “There’s a party at the cove next week, if you wanna tag along with me and Dean.”  
  
“The cove,” you repeat, sounding a bit skeptical.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam laughs softly, loading a plate up with bacon and eggs before handing it to you. “It’s this place back in the woods, like this giant tree house,” he explains, “It’s made out all these old trailers and has metal stairs and bridges around it. It’s pretty cool actually, been around since I was a little boy.” His eyes shine with excitement, like he’s thinking all kind of old memories, and you just sit and admire him, popping some crisp bacon into your mouth. “It’s where I drank my first beer, smoked my first and _last_ cigarette,” he chuckles, stabbing at his eggs with a fork, “Hit my first joint there, too, because Dean wouldn’t leave me the hell alone about tryin’ it.”  
  
“You lose your virginity there, too?” You quirk an eyebrow, mischief flashing in your eyes. Sam just gives you a look from across the table, one that says _I’m not one hundred percent sure I should answer that_. “‘Kay,” you shrug, “I’ll share my experience first.” You laugh when he perks up and gives you his undivided attention. “I was sixteen and going to this really fancy boarding school, like, plaid skirt and Oxfords kind of shit,” you ignore Sam’s little _ohhh_ of intrigue, “There was this senior guy who all the girls bowed down to, said he was the end all, be all of guys.” You roll your eyes at the memory. “Well, for whatever reason he took a liking to me, and he took me to this hidden place on the outskirts of town and asked if he could deflower me.”  
  
Sam snorts. “ _Deflower_ you?” He breathes out a laugh. “That’s on odd way of askin’ a girl if she wouldn’t mind letting you fuck ‘er.”  
  
“My sentiments exactly,” you grin, “And he wasn’t even good at it. He kept doing this ugly grunting thing, ya know, like a caveman.”  
  
“Yeah? What about his _club_?” Sam questions with a smirk, his eyes trained on yours as he takes a sip of orange juice  
  
You sink your teeth into your bottom lip. “I’ve _definitely_ had better,” you say, voice coming out in a purr, “I once fucked this mechanic who had _the_ most beautiful cock that I’ve ever had the pleasure of having inside me.” Sam’s eyes grow cloudy with lust at your words, his nostrils flaring as he lets go of a deep exhale. “I didn’t get the chance to have it in my mouth, though,” you say in faux little pout, “Such a shame.”  
  
Sam catches the little devious smirk that crosses your lips, his sights set on every move you make as you slither down in your chair and disappear beneath the table. He scoots his chair back and looks down to watch you crawl in-between his legs once they’ve fallen open, your hands sliding up his thighs until you’re palming his quickly hardening cock through the worn material concealing it from you.  
  
“Damn, girl,” Sam breathes, his hands sliding up and down your forearms, “I ain’t never had a breakfast quite like _this_.”  
  
“Well, bon appétit,” you grin up at him, sliding your hand beneath the waistband to pull him free, licking your lips and eagerly getting to work.

* * *

  
The week flies by, what with hanging out with Sam and avoiding your parents all together, that the night of the cove party sneaks up on you. Part of you is nervous, mainly because you were never the party girl growing up. The craziest you ever got was junior year of high school when your best friend stole her mom’s wine coolers and brought them to the sleepover you had at your house. Needless to say, your mom caught you and made all your friends leave, leaving you totally embarrassed _and_ hiccupping tipsy.   
  
“Don’t worry,” Sam says, one of his warm hands sliding up your thigh beneath your mini-skirt to squeeze in a reassuring way, the other holding the steering wheel of his old truck straight. “You’ll have a good time, darlin’,” he smiles at the road.  
  
“Just…don’t leave me, okay?” You look at his profile with apprehensive eyes, nervously chewing the dry skin on your bottom lip. “I’ve never been here before and I’m a little freaked out,” you admit, voice growing small, “So, just please stay with me.“   
  
_God, you sound like such a baby._  
  
“Of course I’m stayin’ with you,” Sam says, pulling his car up onto a crowded grassy knoll that’s lined with cars. He kills the engine and turns in his seat towards you, his hand coming up to rest on the back of your neck, his calloused thumb caressing the hinge of your jaw. “You just say the word and we’ll ditch,” he tells you with a sweet smile, his eyes sincere when you turn your head to look at him and nod. “Did I mention that you look damn good tonight?” He smirks, laughing lightly when you playfully swat his hand away and blush a deep shade of pink, trying to hide your smile. “Let’s rock and roll, sweetheart,” he whispers, leaning into kiss your temple before jumping out the car, quickly rounding it to open your door before you have the chance to.  
  
Sam guides you up a dirt path with his hand securely intertwined with yours, other party goers milling around you as you go. The music grows in volume as you get closer and closer to the cove. It’s just as cool as Sam had told you, the old, colorful trailers stack atop one another with stairs and bridges connecting them all. 

  


White Christmas lights are wrapped around all over, giving off a glow that makes you smile. Tons of people filter in and out of the trailers and up and down the stairs, red cups in hand and laughs on their lips.  
  
“Well if it ain’t ol’ Sammy Winchester in the flesh!” A strongly accented voice sounds from behind the two of you, causing you both to turn in response. A burly guy stands there, arms outstretched like he’s asking for a hug. “I was wonderin’ when yer scrawny ass was gonna show up,” the stranger laughs when Sam goes in for a hug, the two of them roughly slapping each other on the backs.   
  
“Good to see you, too, Benny,” Sam greets, pulling back and wrapping an arm around your shoulders, beaming when he says, “Benny, I’d like you to meet Y/N.”  
  
“Hey, darlin’,” Benny nods, playfully grabbing your hand and placing a soft kiss on the back of it, making you blush. “Deany boy’s told me all about ya,” he says with a wink, “Said he just don’t get how a sap like Sam landed a pretty lil’ thing like you.”  
  
“Oh,” you say with a bashful laugh, curling into Sam’s side.  
  
“Dean’s an ass,” Sam chuckles as he rolls his eyes. “Where’s that sonuvabitch at anyhow?”  
  
“Hey! Don’t go talkin’ ‘bout yer mama like that, son,” Benny teases as he shoves Sam’s shoulder, making them both laugh jovially. “Deano’s up in Cabin Five,” Benny tells Sam, “Last time I saw ‘im, he was tryin’ to get up Stacy Jo’s skirt.”  
  
“'Course he was,” Sam chuckles, “He’s only had the hots for her since they were both knee high to a grasshopper.” Benny shrugs, his attention being stolen by someone who shouts his name and holds up a beer funnel. Sam just laughs, squeezes your shoulder and says, “C'mon, baby.”  
  
Cabin Five ends up being the trailer at the top of the tower, an old white and brown one that’s on the smaller side. When Sam pulls you inside it, the strong scent of pot reaches your nose, the air a thick haze of the stuff. You feel a little lightheaded after a while, following Sam towards the back until he shouts his brother’s name in greeting. You see Dean sitting on a horrendous plaid couch, waving you two over as he takes a massive hit of the joint pinched between his fingers, his apple green eyes red and heavily hooded when they look at up you once you’re standing before him.  
  
“Hey, sugar,” he smiles at you, patting the empty seat next to him, smoke billowing out of his mouth and nose. You look at Sam before accepting the seat, watching his lips curl up into a smirk as he settles in next you, sandwiching you in between him and Dean on the small couch. You watch as Dean passes the shortening joint to Sam, your eyes focused on the way Sam’s lips cradle the end and how the veins in his neck appear as he sucks a large hit into his lungs, expertly suppressing his chocking as he holds the smoke in for as long as possible. You look at him with an intrigued gaze as he purses his lips, tilts his head back, and blows out a large cloud of fog, all while he looks at you from the corner of his eyes and smirks this sexy little smirk.  
  
“You want some, newbie?” Dean asks low in your ear, holding the burning joint out in front of you as an offering. Your brain and impulse centers go to war with each other, your brain saying _no, no, no, this is a terrible idea_ , but your impulsive side saying so sweetly _go for it, kid, what harm’ll it do?_ You look at Sam, who simply shrugs, a lazy smile overtaking his mouth. _Okay_ , you think, looking over at Dean and taking the joint from him, bringing the end to your lips and breathing in the pungent, burning smoke. The onslaught of coughs that follows are violent and loud, the brothers laughing with amusement on either side of you as you clutch at your chest, smiling despite the way it burns.  
  
“Let me help you, baby,” Sam says, stealing the joint from you and taking in the biggest hit he can. You gasp when he grabs your face and seals his mouth over yours, his tongue parting your lips so he can blow the smoke into your mouth. You breathe it in like it’s a regular inhale, your tongue twining around Sam’s for a few seconds before you pull away, tilt your head back, and blow the smoke out with only a few small coughs this time. “That’s my girl,” Sam whispers in your ear, his voice becoming a little tinny as the drug works through your system.   
  
Soon, everything feels fuzzy, like the world is made of nothing but fluffy clouds. A world where stress doesn’t exists, your parents don’t matter, and the music is really fucking good. Sam and Dean watch in amusement as you climb out of your seat, all floppy arms and adorable giggle as you join the small group of people who are dancing in the center of the room. One of the girls grabs your hands and guides you in some kind of silly dance, her long brown hair shaking all around as you both laugh uncontrollably and try not to topple over. Pretty soon however, dancing gets boring and you retreat back to the couch, a prominent pout on your lips.  
  
“What’s wrong, buttercup?” Dean chuckles.  
  
“I’m hungry,” you say, turning to Sam with wide, frightened eyes, “Am I gonna _starve_?” Sam just shakes his head, smiling as he reaches over and grabs the bowl of pretzels that is sitting on the end table. “You’re so sweet to me,” you smile dumbly at him, accepting the bowl and throwing a few salty pretzels in your mouth. “Oh my god!” You say, words muffled, “These are, like, the best thing _ever_.”  
  
“I’m gonna go get you a drink,” Sam laughs, “Stay here with Dean and don’t move.”

You nod, not really hearing his words as you continue to eat. You turn to say something to Dean, only to be met with the realization that all his attention is being given to the redhead now sitting on the arm of the couch beside him, her hand dangerously close to his dick as she trails it up his thigh. You scoff, growing bored and curious all over again. You pull yourself up off the couch, feeling like you’re being weighted down with cinder blocks. You rub at your forehead as you venture down the dark hall of the trailer, finding an unoccupied room and crashing down into the beanbag in the corner.  
  
The room starts spinning, like you’re swimming in a toilet bowl that someone’s just flushed. You feel as though you’re vibrating all over. A stupid, giggling mess. You can faintly hear someone calling your name, your hands reaching out and grabbing a hold of something warm and solid in efforts to anchor yourself to the ground that feels like it’s moving. You blink rapidly, your foggy eyes soon clearing and the tightness in your chest finally loosening. Sam’s crouching before you when you can actual focus on something, his hands cradling your face, fingers gently caressing in efforts to calm your heavy breathing.  
  
“Whoa,” you say through a long exhale, “That was fucking intense.”  
  
“Here,” Sam holds a chilled water bottle up to your mouth, “Drink this, you’ll feel better.” He gives you a little smile as you accept it, the thumb of his free hand tenderly running over your flushed cheek as you drink. “I think you just experienced your first come-down, darlin’,” he informs you, “The first one’s always a bitch.”  
  
You look at him apologetically. “Sorry I didn’t stay with Dean,” you say in a small voice, “I just started feeling weird and wanted to lay down somewhere away from all those people.”  
  
Sam shakes his head. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, baby,” he smiles softly, “You’re safe here. I just didn’t want you wonderin’ off and gettin’ hurt in your state. Shit’s happened before.”  
  
You nod in response, feeling a lot better after finishing off the water and with Sam’s comforting presence. A comfortable silence fills the little room, the bright multicolored light of various lava lamps placed all throughout giving off a relaxing vibe, the loud music and conversation outside muffled by the closed door. “Kiss me, Sam,” you whisper after a while, making room for him on the beanbag and wrapping yourself around him when he climbs in beside you. He pushes the hair away from your face, pecking the tip of your nose before moving to press his lips against yours. You lean into it, your tongue snaking out to trace his bottom lip, moaning softly when he grabs your hip and pulls you as close as he can get you.  
  
The warm weight of Sam’s hand moves along your inner thigh, up under your denim skirt until he’s pressing his fingers against your clit through the thin panties you’re wearing. You release his mouth, panting and whimpering in need as you spread your legs for him, your head tipping back when he shoves his hand beneath the soft cotton and smears your slick between your lips and all around your buzzing little bundle of nerves. “So wet already,” Sam husks in your ear, “Always so ready for me, baby, makes my cock ache so fuckin’ bad.”  
  
You groan in response, so ready to have him inside you that you can actual feel it in your veins—or maybe it some residual pot. Hell, you didn’t know. All you know is that Sam definitely isn’t expecting you to flip the switch on him by grabbing his shoulders and shoving him onto his back, nearly pushing him off the beanbag. 

“Whoa _fuck_ ,” he grunts as you straddle his lap, looking down to watch your hasty hands undo his belt and yank his jeans open, his eyes growing dark with desire and his cock throbbing at your sudden assertiveness. A hum of approval leaves him when you pull his hard flesh free of its confines, his hands reaching out to take hold of hips when you brace your tiptoes against the floor on either side of the beanbag and hike your skirt up around your hips. You watch his head fall back when you wrap your hand around him and use the other to push your panties to the side, teetering on your toes for leverage to push yourself up and sink down onto him completely.  
  
“Fuck yeah,” Sam breathes, looking up at you with fierce eyes as you sheath him inside your warm, wet walls. You place your hands on his chest, fisting his t-shirt as you slide back and forth in his lap, the slick sound of him slipping in and out of you meeting your ears and making you blush a deep red as you moan in bliss. “That’s a good girl,” Sam praises, reaching around to grab your ass to spur you on faster, “Use my cock just like that, baby girl, make yourself come.”  
  
“Sam,” you moan, letting your head tip back as you pop your hips quicker, hmm-ing and ohh-ing and yes-ing as you rock yourself silly. “Oh!” You gasp in shock when Sam slaps a heavy hand on your ass, the skin tingling with heat and needley pain. “Fuck,” you say breathlessly as you still in his lap, looking down at him with a playful smile, “Do that again.“   
  
“Yeah?” He smirks, rubbing at your assaulted flesh and waiting for you to nod before pulling his hand back and giving you what you want. He watches you wiggle through the pain that follows, biting your lips between your teeth and mmmm-ing in delight. “You like that?” He asks, grabbing your waist to pull you up his cock, his hips quickly snapping up to bury himself deep inside you again. “Yeah, I know you do,” he smiles lasciviously at your blissful little whimpers, “I could feel you get wetter after the first one.“   
  
“God, you drive me crazy,” you say with a smile, twirling your hips and running your hands up his chest. You lower yourself over him to kiss him hungrily, slotting your tongue between his lips and carding your fingers through his hair. “I need you to fuck me, Sam,” you purr against his mouth, giggling when he growls and swiftly flips you over onto your back. He pulls out and flips you again so you’re face down on the beanbag, your wiggling ass high in the air. He shoves your panties down until their left abandoned at your knees, his jeans and boxers receiving the same treatment before he saddles up close to slide his cock back inside you.   
  
Your eyes roll back in pleasure, the fit much tighter in this position. The sound on skin slapping skin fills the little room, along with the calls of ecstasy that leave you and Sam as you work together in reaching that awaiting peak. Sam thrusts forward as you rock back, his hands squeezing your ass that’s decorated in red welts that zing with a sweet mixture of pain and pleasure. Sweat trickles down your temples as you pant, the air surrounding you thick with the stink of sex.   
  
When you finally careen into inexplicable euphoria, you’re breathless and shaking and unable to focus on anything but the smooth glide of Sam inside you, growing slicker and slicker from your orgasm. Your flexing walls work as a catalyst for Sam’s own release, his final string of moans and groans the most exquisite melody you’ve ever heard as he empties himself deep inside you. His hips jerk weakly a few more times before he’s falling down against your back, boneless and panting wildly in your ear.  
  
“Fuck’s sake, girly,” he chuckles breathily, his lips skimming over your ruddy cheek as you lie just as exhausted beneath him. “Ain’t no other woman ever made me come the way you do,” he admits, lining your jaw with tiny kisses, “Damn near makes me wanna put a ring on that pretty little finger of yours.”  
  
You snort a laugh. “That’s just your dick talkin’,” you murmur, “Now get off me before you kill me.”  
  
Sam sniggers as he hauls himself up, slowly pulling out of you and yanking his pants back up, loose belt jingling in the air. He watches as you sit up on your knees with your back to him, his milky come dribbling down your inner thigh as you reach down to pull your panties up. “The owner of this chair really isn’t gonna like the fact that we made such a mess,” he snickers as he jumps up to his feet, helping you do the same when he notices you’re a little wobbly.  
  
You simply shrug, your smile careless and mischief glimmering in your eyes when you look up at him. “They shouldn’t'a just left it lying around then,” you say, patting his chest and walking around him to open the door. “Let’s go back to your place,” you suggest, giving him a smirk when you add, “I’d like to try that spanking thing out a little bit more.”  
  
“Jesus H. Christ,” Sam says under his breath, readjusting himself in his jeans, “You keep talkin’ like _that_ and we won’t even make it that far.”  
  
“Ohhh, car sex,” you beam, “Even better.”

* * *

The next morning, you and Sam are tucked away in a booth at the nearest IHOP, sharing a tall stack of pancakes smothered in whip cream and sliced strawberries. You’re both still in your pajamas, your makeup a mess and Sam’s hair an even bigger one. The waitress serving you just smiles when she passes your table or stops to top of your coffee cups.   
  
“My mother would have a cow if she saw the state I was in right now,” you chuckle, licking some stray cream from your lips. 

Sam gives a small laugh, wiping his mouth with a crumpled napkin. “I’d think it’d be cool to meet ‘em,” he shurgs, “Your parents, I mean.” He quickly notices the way you grow tense in response. “You don’t talk about ‘em much,” he says, “What’re they like?”  
  
You heave a heavy sigh, wishing Sam would just forget the subject entirely. “You wouldn’t want to meet them,” you decide for him, not meeting his eyes as you poke at the leftover pancake pieces. You don’t catch the confusion and hurt that clouds Sam’s eyes, or the way he looks around to make sure no one else is listening.  
  
“Are you ashamed of me or somethin’?” He asks in a soft voice, “I mean, I don’t wanna assume anything, but—”  
  
Your eyes snap up to meet his, your mouth falling open in horror. “Of course not, Sam,” you say quickly, leaning over the table to get closer to him. “It’s just,” you stop to take a deep breath, “I’m ashamed of _them_ — _not_ you.” When he raises his eyebrows in question, you swallow thickly. “My parents only care about money, prestige, and pedigree. They’re shallow, Sam. I know they’re my parents an’ all, but they’re everything I _don’t_ want to be in life,” you explain, “You’re such a kindhearted, caring person, and I just don’t want them tearing you apart because you don’t meet their unrealistic expectations for me.” You snort humorlessly before adding, “Shit, _I_ don’t even meet their expectations for me.”  
  
Sam sits silent, thinking over your words. “You’re not datin’ me to stick it to ‘em, are you?” He asks, giving you the biggest puppy dog eyes you’ve seen before. “You’re not just usin’ me to piss 'em off?”  
  
“God, no,” you say, reaching across the table to grab his hands in yours. “Sam, I’m with you because I truly like you,” you say vehemently, “You treat me the way I only ever dreamed of before I met you. You’re sweet, considerate, and such a gentleman. If anything, I’m lucky you even considered _me_.”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam rubs at the back of your hands with his thumbs.  
  
You chew at your bottom lip. “I’m just some spoiled little rich girl whose parents basically treat her like a pawn,” you shrug, emotional lacing in your voice despite your efforts to stop it, “They see me as some ticket to getting them married into a family even richer than them. All I’ve ever known is fancy dinner parties, horribly unflavored food, and this stupid need to fit into the box my parents created for me.” You release Sam’s hands to quickly wipe away the tears that fall down your cheeks, rolling your eyes at your lack of composure. “I just feel broken sometimes, ya know?” You say in a soft voice, giving Sam a watery smile that doesn’t meet your eyes. “Sometimes I feel like a failure, like all I ever do is disappoint people—especially my parents.”  
  
Jesus, where’s this all coming from? You’re sitting in an IHOP spilling your freaking guts out to a guy you’ve only known for a few weeks, but in a way, feel like you’ve known forever. “With you,” you start, “I feel like I can be myself, like I don’t have to pretend to be this perfect little angel who’s put together twenty-four seven. With you, I feel like _me_.”  
  
Sam smiles warmly at you from across the table. “Do you trust me?” He asks, forehead creasing with concern. When you nod immediately, he sighs and says, “I wasn’t gonna bring this up because I didn’t want to pry, but since we’re getting’ all deep and shit, I thought I’d ask.”  
  
“Okay,” you nod to encourage him.  
  
“The first time we…” he gestures between the two of you, waiting for you to catch on before saying, “I, uh, I noticed some bruises on your hips. I didn’t question 'em because we were in the middle of somethin’, but they, um, they kinda looked like someone grabbed you the wrong way.” He watches the way your eyes widen and your breathing quickens. “Now, you don’t have to tell me about 'em,” he says softly, hands up in defense, “But again, I just thought I’d ask.”  
  
You search your brain for a viable excuse to use so you don’t have to tell him the truth. 

_Tell him you’re clumsy. Tell him you’re just really bad about walking into doorknobs, or corners on furniture._

In some way or another, none of them seem good enough, so instead of hiding from it, you simply take a deep breath and tell Sam how you got the bruises you’d been so upset about weeks prior.  
  
Every single excruciating detail.


	4. Let It Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have a one-on-one with your father for the first time in weeks, and as expected, things don’t go so good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a brief mention of attempted sexual assault. Please, my little doves, do not read if this triggers you in any way. I get that you enjoy my writing but I care more for your mental and emotional wellbeing than kudos or comments <3

You walk into the house, feeling as if the tall white walls are caving in on you as soon as you step through the intricately carved threshold. It’s never felt more strange being in your own home before, like it wasn’t where you belonged at all, like there was a suddenly obvious lack of warmth and safety and a comfort you craved but never found in this place. Maybe you were being dramatic, maybe you were just being ungrateful—what girl wouldn’t want this life? A life of means, of nice clothes and an expensive car. 

Somehow though, it just didn’t feel like enough anymore. Maybe it never had been.

You find your father out on the veranda drinking lemonade and reading the morning newspaper, forehead creased in concentration as he reads about stocks and sports. He hears your footsteps but choses to ignore them, not even giving you a second glance when you take the seat across from him at the glass-top patio table. “You look terrible,” is the first thing he says, not even bothering to look at you for more than a few seconds, “Ever since you’ve started seeing that Winchester fiend, you’ve stayed out all hours of the night and barely speak a word to me and your mother. Then you stumble in, looking like you’ve partied all night, doing God only knows what.”

“Don’t drag Sam into this, please,” you plead weakly, tired of fighting with him, “I just came out here to sit with you, okay?” You hear his scoff, fighting back the tears that flood your eyes. “Why do you do that?” You ask in a soft voice, “Why do you try and make me feel stupid for trying to spend time with you? You’ve done it my entire life.”

“Oh, stop being dramatic,” he says, rolling his eyes and placing his paper down on the table. “I’ve given you everything, Y/N,” he defends himself, “I’ve given you a life anyone would sell their soul to have.”

“If you call forcing me to date assholes and buying my love a life worth having, you are so sadly delusional,” you reply with a watery laugh, “Daddy, you have try to control every aspect of my life. I can’t do anything without you sticking your nose up at it or making me feel like an idiot for having my own wants and needs, for wanting to be myself and make my own choices.”

Your father stands angrily. “I will not sit here and listen to you spew such venomous lies,” he seethes, “You stay out all night, probably spreading your legs for that trash like a common _whore_ , and I’m to blame because I didn’t coddle you growing up?”

“Richard!” Your mother’s horrified gasp comes from the open back door, heartbreak evident in her tone. Tears sit heavy in your eyes, your chest growing tight with shock and betrayal. “Honey, he didn’t mean it,” your mother tries to say when you stand up and walk past her into the house, a choked sob escaping your mouth. “Richard, tell her you didn’t mean it!” You hear her beg your father before you shoot up the stairs to your bedroom, grabbing empty suitcases from your closet and stuffing them with whatever will fit—clothes, shoes, toiletries, whatever the fuck.

“Sweetie, please don’t go,” your mother pleads when she sees what you’re doing, her dainty, desperate hands trying to stop you, “We can work this out.”

“No!” You sob, tearing yourself away from her, “Don’t you get it, mom? I’ll never be what you and dad want me to be, okay? I don’t want _this_ —I don’t want _any_ of it! I just want to live a life I’m happy with, with someone who loves me for _me_ and not the wealth I come from.” You turn to stare at the overflowing suitcases on your bed. “I have to go, mom,” you say in a broken voice, “I don’t belong here anymore,” taking a second of short silence before adding, “I never did.” You pull the zippers closed and drag the cases off the bed by their handles. “I’ll be back whenever for the rest of my stuff,” you say to your mother in passing as you leave the room.

There’s no way in hell you’re using the car your father bought you, so you call a cab once you’re outside, thanking the heavens above it doesn’t take long to get there. You put a smile on your face through tears when the driver helps you with your bags, even opening the back door for you as an added nicety. You give the man Sam’s address, looking out the window as the world passes you by. The words _common whore_ repeat over and over again in your head, your father’s face grow meaner and more vicious with every mental replay. It’s a side of him you’ve never seen before, a side you wish you had _still_ never seen. 

Sam’s a little shocked when he opens his door to find you standing there, looking like the saddest girl in the world with your matching, totally over packed luggage. He springs into action when your face scrunches up in an ugly sob, his arms wrapping around you as he cradles your head against his chest, his mouth resting against the top of your head, softly shooshing into your hair as he rubs your back with his free hand. “It’ll be okay, darlin’,” he whispers, “We’ll be okay.”

Inside the warmth of his little home, Sam makes you some coffee, fixing it up just the way you like. He lets you settle in his lap as he sits in his old, ratty recliner in the living room, your face buried in his neck as you cradle a John Wayne mug in your hands. “Tell me all about it, sweetheart,” he whispers, cuddling you closer. He listens to you relive the last hour or so, wiping your tears as you go and smoothing your hair down sweetly. He feels responsible, but you tell him not to be stupid, that you were going to have a blowout with your dad eventually whether Sam had come into your life or not.

“I can stay in a hotel if this is too much for you,” you suggests, understanding if Sam thinks this is all too sudden and a little too soon considering you’ve only known each other a short time.

“Nonsense,” he tells you, his lips pressing against your forehead, “You’ll stay here, with me.”

You nod, grateful that he shot down your idea, because truthfully, you didn’t want to be anywhere else right now. Something about the warmth of Sam’s body and the rumble of his chest when he spoke worked as the greatest therapy you could have asked for, better than the chocolate ice cream and sappy chick flicks you usually used to make yourself feel better.

That night, after Sam helps you make space for the fraction of clothes and shoes you brought in his master closet and after he’s piled all your toiletries in the overflowing medicine cabinet in the bathroom, he pulls you into bed. He slowly strips your clothes off until you’re wonderfully bare, his hands and lips gentle and soothing on your flesh. He works his own clothing off as well, pressing the front of his body against the back of yours, both of you laying on your sides in the soft cotton sheets.

“You are not the things your father called you,” Sam softly says into the space where your neck meets your shoulder. “You are beautiful and lovely, and you deserve to be happy all the time,” he kisses along the curve of your shoulder, trailing a hand down your thigh before wrapping it around your knee to pull your legs apart. “Hold yourself open for me, baby,” he husks in your ear, guiding your hand to your knee and praising you when you pull it towards your chest. You gasp when you feel the blunt head of his cock slide through your folds, using your free hand to reach down and spread them apart, amazed at how wet you are. “Such a good girl for me,” Sam groans as he pushes himself inside you from behind, filling you up so sweetly that it damn near makes you cry.

The rhythm Sam builds is slow and easy, nothing rushed or rough about it. He nips at your jawline, bathes your neck in soft, tongue-filled kisses, and sets every nerve in your body alight with pleasure. You moan melodies for him, undulating your hips in time with his, glowing from the words of encouragement and approval he spills into your ear in a deep, throaty voice that makes you shiver. When that extra push is needed, you reach down and rub at your clit, your pussy clutching at where Sam throbs inside you. He gasps in response, fucking into you a little harder and clinging to your body as he fills you up with thick strings of hot come. 

“Love it when you do that, baby,” you tell him in a rasp, nosing at his temple when he buries his face in your neck, “Feels so good inside me.“ 

“Love filling you up,” he echoes, gently pulling out of you and shoving a hand between your dirtied thighs to collect some of the come leaking out your spent cunt. You accept his soaked fingers into your mouth, sucking and licking them clean and moaning around them as the familiar taste of Sam covers your tongue. “My filthy little minx,” Sam smiles as he watches you, “So goddamn sexy.“ 

You hum appreciatively as you turn in his hold, tossing a leg over his hip and molding the front of your body to his. You push the wild, sweat-damp hair away from his forehead and smile lazily. There’s a softness in his eyes that makes your heart swell when he looks at you. “You’re my home now,” you whisper to him in the quiet twilight spilling into the bedroom you now share, voice cracking with emotion when you add, “Don’t ever leave me, Sam.”

Sam shakes his head, cradling your face in his hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says against your lips, pecking them a few times before saying, “I ain’t goin’ anywhere without you, darlin’.” He swipes the pads of his thumb under your eyes to clean up the wetness that collects there, his arms eventually wrapping around you to pull you into his chest, a hand raking through your hair as you breathe against his warm skin.

 It’s a whole week before you show up back at the place you used to call home, the house looking the exact same but now totally different in your eyes. Sam let you borrow his truck, hitching a ride with Dean to work so you could efficiently haul all your stuff back to his place—your place, too, now. 

You ring the doorbell, ignoring how odd it feels and taking a deep breath. Your mom opens the door, looking a little relieved but nonetheless sad to see you. She lets you in, informs you she had Gerald pick up some moving boxes and that she’s already took them upstairs. You give her a small smile of thanks, trudging up the large staircase, your hand sliding along the smooth, rich oak banister as you go. 

Once in your former bedroom, you pack away everything you can, leaving behind the things you don’t care for. You load box after box into the bed of Sam’s old truck, sighing when you finally pick up the last one and stare around at your now barren old room. You turn and walk out, closing the door behind you and descending down the stairs.

“Where’s dad?” You ask your mother with a shaky voice.

“He’s in his study,” she answers, giving you a sad, longing look as you nod and make your way to the study. She follows behind, not going in but standing in the doorway as you stop in front of your father’s desk, where he’s sitting with the back of the chair facing you as he looks out the large window in front of him.

“I, um, I just came to say goodbye,” you start in a small voice. When he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even move a muscle, you sigh shakily. “Daddy, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you with my actions,” you say, “But I won’t apologize for finding Sam and falling in love with him.” You look down as you pick at your fingernails. “I came to tell you that you’re wrong about him, about his family,” you stop to wipe the tears away, “They’re good people who work hard for what they have. And I know he’s not what you had in mind for me, but he’s a good one, and he treats me better than anyone ever has.”

You take a deep breath. “But you don’t care about that, daddy,” you cry, “All you care about is your image and how people perceive you, and you somehow think that by me marrying the highest bidder, you’ll be happy.” You stop to think about your next sentence. “You didn’t care that Alexander tried to force himself on me,” you say in a broken voice, shocked that your father actually spins his chair around this time, eyes flashing with shock. “That’s why I broke up with him,” you admit, “He wanted to have sex and I didn’t, so he tried to force me. He got rough with me, grabbed me so tight it left bruises and ended up slapping me across the face when I tried to scream for help. I had to fight like hell to get him off.” You choke back a sob. “And I tried to tell you, daddy, I _did_ ,” you insist, “But you never listened to me and always cut me off, telling me what events to go to and what people I needed to impress.”

Tears shine in your father’s eyes, but his stubborn nature stands strong and he roughly wipes them away before turning his chair back around. You sigh in response. “I love you, daddy,” you say softly, “I just wish you loved me more than you love this life.“ 

With that, you turn to leave, passing your mother who has a hand covering her mouth and tears streaming down her cheeks. You leave them both behind, hoping that one day things between you will be different, but choosing to not hold your breath just yet. You exit the cold shell of a house, climbing into the driver’s seat of Sam’s truck and pulling out of the driveway one last time. Despite the sadness that settles deep in your bones, the weight begins to fall away as you drive farther away from there and closer to your new home, in that little trailer park where everything fell into place.

You’re just finishing up unpacking your boxes when the rumble of Dean’s old classic car sounds from outside, the opening and slamming of a door making your heart burst before the car begins driving down the street once again. The front door opens and boots can be heard on the mat just outside, scraping away any lose mud or dirt. You smile when a pair of strong arms wraps around you from behind not too long later, familiar lips playfully kissing up your neck. You spin in those safe arms, coming face-to-face with a greased smudged Sam, the top half of his navy coveralls hanging around his hips to reveal a dirty, threadbare, grey t-shirt that’s tight in all the right places. He smells like sweat, oil, and home, the scent making your pupils dilate.

"Welcome home,” you whisper against his mouth, gasping when his hands slide under your shirt, grease smudging across your skin as he moves them all over. 

“Oops,” he plays coy, smiling against your parted lips, “Looks like I got you all dirty.”

“Well,” you reply, playfully nipping at his bottom lip before trapping it between your teeth to tug gently, “I think we’re both in need of a nice hot shower, then.”

Sam growls deep in his throat as a grin takes over his mouth, bending his knees and grabbing the back of your thighs to haul you up with ease, making you squeal and wrap your legs and arms around him like a squid to anchor yourself. You laugh with him all the way to the bathroom, kissing him silly and smiling like a fool, feeling secure and wanted and okay despite everything else.

_Yeah_ , you think, _I could get used to this._


	5. My Heart (Epilogue)

The alarm clock is shrill, seven o'clock sharp, leaving you groaning and slapping the stupid thing quiet before you turn back over in hopes of getting five more good minutes of much needed sleep. Those dreams are dashed when you hear the pitter patter of little feet coming down the hallway, followed by a soft, shy knock on the bedroom door. 

“Stay very quiet and it might go away,” a groggy voice mumbles next to you in the bed, head turned away from you and shoved in a pillow.   
  
You chuckle lightly. “That ‘it’ you speak of is probably our youngest son who absolutely refuses to sleep past six,” you reply, reaching over to ruffle the mess of lengthy brown hair atop your sleepy husband’s head, making him roll over and look at you through barely opened eyes.   
  
“We could always just leave him on that orphanage doorstep like we discussed,” he teases, not surprised when the doorknob jiggles in response and a tiny, exasperated voice calls out, “Mommy! Daddy! Let. Me. In!“   
  
“Sam, I told you to stop locking this door at night,” you scold him like he was one of your children, quickly climbing out of bed and moving to turn the lock and open at the door, revealing a short little human who has your nose and Sam’s eyes and a sass neither of you can account for.   
  
His little annoyed face quickly melts into a dimpled grin when he sees you. “Mornin’, mommy,” he greets, wrapping himself around your legs and squeezing tightly before running towards your bed to give his father some love as well. Sam wraps him in his arms and cuddles him close, pretending to eat at his neck just to make him laugh. “Yo’re so silly, daddy!” He giggles, prying himself out of Sam’s grasp to start jumping on the bed like he does every morning.   
  
You just smile and shake your head before walking down the hallway, following the jovial babbling and cooing you hear. You push open the door to the nursery, gasping playfully when you see a sweet little babe with brown curls holding onto the side of her crib and bouncing in place. “Well hello, my sweet girl,” you gush as you walk over and pluck her out of her bed, settling her on your hip and turning towards the changing table. You get her all cleaned up and in a fresh onesie before picking her back up and placing a kiss on her round little cheek, bouncing her on your hip as you exit her room and travel further down the hallway.   
  
You don’t bother knocking on the door that has a stupid “ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!” sign on it, knowing it would do no good in helping to rouse your oldest. You flick on the light, flooding the pitch black room with brightness, making the figure in the twin bed groan and pull the covers up over his head. “Up and at ‘em!” You shout happily just to annoy him, “Early bird catches the worm, yadda yadda, let’s _go_!” Your baby girl giggles in response, clapping her hands together and giving you a cheesy, gummy smile. “See?” You say to the pre-teen who’s purposefully ignoring you, “Now why can’t you be more like your sister?”  
  
“Because,” he groans as he finally sits up and rubs at his eyes, his hair an outright mess atop his head, “That would mean I use diapers and that ain’t cool.”  
  
“Okay, smartass,” you scoff, biting back a humored smile, “Just get up and get ready before I make you walk to school, young man.” 

You leave him to get ready, walking back to your bedroom where Sam and your middle child are lounging on the bed in matching positions—their hands folded under their heads and their legs crossed at the ankles. Sam listens intently as your son discusses the woes of preschool, what with that darned nap time and the healthy snacks he thinks should be replaced with something sweeter like chocolate cake or those cookies with the frosting and sprinkles on them. “Okay, boys, enough gossip,” you smile at them, “Time to get ready for the day.”  
  
“Mommy?” Your son calls as he jumps from your bed, “Can I seat in tha front on the way to school this time?”  
  
You laugh softly to yourself. “Maybe when you’re taller, kid,” you say, ruffling his hair as he passes by you, your heart swelling at the small pout that puffs up his face and the adorable _dang it_ he lets slip under his breath. 

“Watch her while I go scrounge up some breakfast,” you tell Sam as you place your bouncy daughter in his already outstretched hands. You lean in to drop a kiss to his lips, shooting him a wink before heading towards the kitchen, making sure to wiggle your ass playfully in the process.  
  
“Your mama’s crazy, baby girl,” Sam tells the little girl with a smile, kissing her head of curls and hugging her to his chest. He chuckles when she starts babbling nonsense, not able to form any real, understandable words yet. “Tell me all about it,” he says, “Tell me how you really feel.” He only laughs when she squeals and grabs at his stubbly chin with her chubby little hands, her eyes that match yours wide with wonder as she tries to shove them in Sam’s mouth. “Hey now,” he snorts another laugh, gently pushing her hands away and cradling them in one of his large ones, “Quit bein’ a little stinker.” He boops her nose and kisses her forehead, unsure of how he’d never not known such a love like the one he had for all his children—a fierce, protective, unconditional love.

* * *

Sam finds you in the laundry room after work, at war with some grass and grease stains. He’d made sure that all the kids were occupied by either video games, sleep, or the Lion King before he even thought about searching you out.   
  
“We don’t have long,” he whispers in your ear after he’s plastered himself to your back, making you jump in surprise since you didn’t even hear him come in. You drop everything that’s in your hands, reaching back to instead tangle them in his thick hair and tilting your head to side in order to give his hungry mouth access to your neck. You bite down into your bottom lip to stop any noise from escaping, your hips pushing back into Sam’s to feel his hard cock through the rough denim of his jeans. “Fuck,” his rasps in your ear, strong hands grabbing your hips to keep them moving, “I could probably come just like this, baby. Been so long since I had you all to myself.”  
  
“Good,” you start, tilting your head back against his shoulder and grabbing one of his hands to guide it between your legs, “Because we more than likely don’t have the time to get all the way undressed, fuck like bunnies, and then get redressed in time for this kids _not_ to catch us.” Sam laughs against your throat, shoving his hand beneath your yoga pants and panties to rub at your needy, sensitive flesh, making you gasp and rock down onto his fingers, your ass rubbing against his cock in the process.   
  
“Dry fuck it is, then,” he husks, shoving his hips forward to further stimulate himself, his free hand coming up to cover your mouth when you start losing control of your volume, the whirling dryer an added muter. He pants into your neck, slipping two long fingers inside your recently neglected cunt, the heel of his rough-skin hand pressed right up against your throbbing clit. You scream into the palm sealed over your mouth, your eyes rolling back as pleasure pulses throughout your body. It doesn’t take long at all for you to come—in fact, you don’t think you’ve ever come so quick. Sam’s not too far behind, roughly sliding his trapped cock back and forth against your ass, body soon growing rigid and biting down on your clothed shoulder to mask his ecstasy as he fills his shorts with hot, sticky come.   
  
“Holy hell, woman,” he breathes, lax against your back as you hold yourself up with the washing machine in front of you, squeezing your thighs around the big hand that’s still between them. “One'a these days, we’re shippin’ the kids off to my parents for a whole weekend,” he promises, “That way I can fuck you the way you deserve, darlin’.”  
  
“Fine by me,” you smile, humming when he gently pulls his fingers free from your fluttering pussy, the digits glittering with the evidence of your release when he tugs his hand free from your pants. You turn just in time to watch him slip them between his lips, tonguing them clean and moaning at the taste of you.  
  
“Still just as sweet as you’ve always been,” he smirks once he’s finished. “Someday soon, I’m gonna sit you right on my face,” he tells you, “And that’s where you’ll stay until I’ve exhausted that perfect cunt of yours with my mouth.”  
  
“Jesus Christ, Sam,” you groan in response, pressing your face into his chest, “Let’s send the kids away _this_ weekend.”  
  
Sam just chuckles, mouth open to speak his approval but quickly being interrupted by the loud shout of, “Daddy! The Lion King fwoze again!"   
  
"Will you…” Sam starts, motioning to his pants that are harboring a pretty big wet spot, “I’ve gotta…”  
  
“Go clean up,” you tell him, “I’ll take care of that damn DVD player.” You smile as he moves away from you to sneak out of the laundry room. “Oh, and one more thing,” you stop him, grinning casually when you say, “I refuse to try and get _that_ stain out.”  
  
Sam just rolls his eyes, biting back a humored grin.

* * *

That night, as you and Sam sit in bed against the headboard, you’re reading a book while cradling a sleeping baby girl on your chest and Sam’s flipping through the paper he didn’t chance to read that morning. In the quiet, peaceful silence that the two of you only ever really get at this time of night, Sam turns his head to watch the way your eyes follow the lines of the trashy romance novel and the way the babe using you as a pillow sighs adorably in her sleep, her face squished by the way she’s lied up on your breasts. 

  
A soft smile pulls at his lips, his heart nearly bursting in his chest with how much he loves you. “You ever regret it?” He asks in a small voice so he doesn’t disturb his daughter’s slumber.  
  
“Regret what?” You follow up with, eyes not leaving your book because you’re _this_ close to the sex scene you’ve been waiting three long chapters for. Your girlfriend, Nancy, said it was the best stuff she’s read to date.  
  
“Hey, earth to my wife,” Sam laughs, swiftly snatching the book from your hands, nearly making you shout in protest before you remind yourself that you’re currently holding a little one who probably wouldn’t appreciate it very much. You settle for giving give him a displeased pout, hugging your baby closer. “I said ‘do you ever regret it’?” Sam repeats, humor twinkling in his eyes.  
  
“And I said 'regret what’?” You sigh, “You know I hate when you get all cryptic and junk.”  
  
Sam smiles. “I was talkin’ about givin’ it all up,” he explains, voice falling to an earnest one, “Givin’ up your parents’ money, givin’ up the chance to marry some rich douchebag who could buy you the world. You ever resent the fact that you had to waitress tables all those years because we were strugglin’ there for a while?” He sighs deeply before adding, “You ever regret givin’ everything up because of me?”  
  
You chew on your bottom lip in thought, gently and carefully moving your daughter over to the bassinet beside your bed before giving Sam your full attention. You cuddle up against his side, cupping his cheek in one hand and tenderly kissing the other, listening to the shaky exhale that leaves him. “I didn’t give everything up _because_ of you,” you whisper to him, combing the lengthy brown hair from his face, “I gave it up _for_ you.” You thumb over his bottom lip, examining his strong profile. “You know what I love most about you?” You question him, using his little hum as a prompt to say, “I love how fiercely protective you are of me and the kids, but also so kindhearted and gentle.” You smirk when you asks, “And you wanna know what turns me on most about you?"   
  
"Oh,” Sam smirks back, finally turning his head to meet your eyes, “Tell me."   
  
You pop a kiss on his lips before saying, "That you’re such an amazing dad.” You smile when his cheeks tint pink, something you haven’t seen in a while. “You’re so good with them,” you gush, “And they love you so much, baby.” You see the way Sam’s eyes glass over with emotion and way his smile wobbles just a bit, making you bite back your own and nuzzle your nose alongside his. “Not to mention, you’re a total dilf,” you say just to make him laugh, his open mouth grazing yours.   
  
“And you’re the foxiest milf on the block, darlin’,” Sam returns, running a hand up your side over your silken nightgown.  
  
“You say the sweetest things to me, Sam Winchester,” you chuckle, grabbing his face and pulling him in for a proper kiss, one filled with foolish smiles and breathy laughs. When you pull back for air, your sweet bliss melts into a solemn look. “There is one thing I regret, I guess,” you admit, gnawing your lip before elaborating with, “I hate that our children only know my parents from pictures and what they read in birthday cards.” You sigh, adding, “I guess I regret never making amends with my dad. It’s not fair to our kids that they miss out on knowing their other grandparents just because I didn’t agree with them and cut them off."   
  
Sam smiles minutely, grabbing your hand and placing a gentle kiss across your knuckles. "It’s not too late, baby,” he says with hope in his voice, “They only live an hour away, an’ I know you still have their number because I saw it that contact book you keep by the phone.” He brings you in for another sweet kiss. “If making things right with your parents is somethin’ you’re thinkin’ about doin’, just know I’m behind you a hundred an’ ten percent.”  
  
You nod, heart bursting for the man you’ve chosen to spend your life with. “I’ll think about it,” you tell him, “For the kids.”  
  
“For the kids,” Sam echoes, loving admiration dancing in his glittering eyes.

* * *

The drive doesn’t take all that long, but with the kids shouting in the back of the car, one crying and the other two arguing, you’re left a little frazzled. You’d called ahead a few days prior—luckily getting your mom—and asked her if you could come and visit for a few hours, smiling a little when she squealed in response and told you that you didn’t even have to ask. You asked if it was okay to bring Sam and the kids along, thanking her when she told you not to be silly and insisted that they tag along.  
  
The house is still massively large, making your oldest son say, “Dang, this is where you used to live, mom?” You just shrug, giving him a soft smile.  
  
“You ready?” You ask Sam, rubbing at his shoulder as he kills the engine and sighs deeply. “Don’t be nervous,” you tell him when he nods unsurely, combing your fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, “I’ll be right there beside you.”  
  
You and Sam guide your children up the pebbled walkway, holding their hands and settling the baby on your hip as you stand on the doorstep of the place you thought you’d never see again. You ring the doorbell, hearing the familiar melody of bells ring out inside to inform your parents they have guests. You hold your breath, squeezing your youngest son’s tiny hand and smiling when he squeezes back with a dimpled grin made just for you. The door finally opens, your mother standing there with tears in her eyes and a hand over her heart, just as beautiful as you had always thought she was when you were a little girl.  
  
“Hey, mom,” you greet, gasping when she rushes forward and pulls you into a hug, her hand resting gingerly on the back of your tiny daughter’s head as she babbles. You watch as your mother pulls back and looks at the little girl with hearts bursting in her eyes. You introduce her to your family, even though she pretty much knows them from all the Christmas cards you’ve sent over the years just to build the bridge you might have walked over one day.   
  
Feelings that you can’t explain fill you when she pulls Sam in for a hug and says, “Thank you for taking care of her.” You watch Sam smile and hug her closer, letting out a little, “No problem.”  
  
“Well, come on in,” you mother says, “Your father should be home soon.”  
  
“Oh, where’d he go?” You ask to create some small talk, quietly berating your middle child for trying to touch the crystal figurines sitting on the table next to the door.   
  
“He actually went to that big toy store in town,” she tells you, making your brows grew together in confusion. She looks at you hopefully, her voice low enough for only you and Sam to hear as not to excite the children too much. “He wants to get them some things,” she says, a little uncertain when she adds, “I hope you don’t mind. He was just really excited about meeting them and getting to spoil them a little bit since he hasn’t gotten to.”  
  
“Oh,” you say again, a little softer this time, your hand moving to intertwine with Sam’s. “That’s okay,” you nod with a small smile, strangely happy about this revelation, because you can’t recall your father ever being genuinely excited about anything that wasn’t a societal obligation. You follow her to the living room where she’s set out some tea and little snacks, which your sons immediately take a liking to. “Boys,” you scold when they start shoving whole finger sandwiches into their mouths and settle on either side of your mother on the couch across from you, “Act like you were raised with some manners, please.”  
  
“Oh, they’re fine, honey,” your mother laughs softly, wrapping an arm around each boy and hugging them close. “They’re growing boys after all!”  
  
“And hellions,” Sam says under his breath, looking absolutely ridiculous bringing a tiny, delicate tea cup up to his lips and taking a huge gulp. You playfully slap his arm, snorting a laugh when he nearly spits the warm, bitter tea out, making sure your mother’s not looking when he swallows with a grimace and sticks his tongue out to wipe it on the sleeve of his thick flannel. “You drank this crap growing up?” He whispers to you, looking incredulous, “Where’s the sugar and ice?”  
  
“Oh, sweetie,” you laugh, patting his knee in sympathy and shaking your head. Your daughter bounces on your thighs, shakily crawling out of your lap and into Sam’s, babbling away and pulling herself up on her feet by grabbing her way up Sam’s shirt, smiling with a wide, gummy mouth as your husband makes silly faces at her.  
  
“She’s beautiful,” a familiar voice sounds from behind the couch, making you whip around to see your father standing there, hair greying and wrinkles crinkling the outer corners of his eyes as he smiles nervously. You stand immediately, wringing your hands and mouth parting to speak but forming no words. “She has your eyes,” he observes, clearing his throat awkwardly in the silence that settles over the room, all eyes on the interaction between you and the man you’d basically told to screw off over thirteen years ago.

  
“Hi, daddy,” you finally say in a small voice, heart hammering away in your chest as you buzz with nerves.   
  
Tears sparkle in his haunted eyes when he replies with, “Hi, pumpkin."   
  
God, he hasn’t called you that since you fell off your bike when you were five and wouldn’t stop crying about your scraped up knees, and he was just trying to comfort you and assure you that it was okay, that everyone fell off their bike every once in a while. You round the couch and rush to him, throwing your arms around his neck and hugging him close. He wraps his arms around you, holding you impossibly tight, like he’s afraid that if his grip is too lose, you’ll disappear right before his eyes.   
  
When you pull back, he wipes the tears from your face before he cleans up his own. "I’m so sorry, for everything,” he says in a soft voice, “I’m sorry for being a terrible father and pushing you away, honey. I should have respected your wishes and given your relationship a real chance. I was just being stubborn and allowing myself to be influenced by a toxic mindset derived from this lifestyle.”  
  
“Oh, daddy,” you laugh through your tears, grabbing his hands and squeezing tightly. “I’m sorry, too,” you cry with a smile, “I’m sorry I never visited or even called. I was being stubborn, too—I guess now I know where I got it from.” He laughs with you and pulls you in for another hug.  
  
“Daddy, I’d like you to meet my husband, Sam,” you say when you pull away, turning towards the couch and waving a hand at Sam to come over. He quickly scrambles to stand, holding your baby girl to his chest as he makes his way over to the two of you.  
  
“Hi, Mister Y/L/N,” he greets, maneuvering your daughter over to one hand to hold the other out towards your father. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” he smiles nervously.  
  
“Call me Richard, Sam,” your father smiles back, placing his hand in Sam’s and shaking it firmly. “I’d like to thank you for taking care of my daughter,” he nods, “And I’m sorry I didn’t take the time to properly get to know you all those years ago.”  
  
“Thank you, Richard,” Sam says, “Your daughter’s made me a very happy man.”  
  
You blush at his words, rubbing his back in appreciation. “Would you like to hold her, daddy?” You ask, motioning towards the grinning baby who’s wiggling in Sam’s in arms and making grabby hands at your father. He nods slowly, smile wobbling nervously as Sam hands over your precious babe to him. She looks up at him in wonder, cautiously placing a chubby hand on his cheek and her mouth open in thought.  
  
“Hi, little one,” he says to her, thumbing over one her rosy, round cheeks. “Oh!” He suddenly says, “That reminds me.” He turns away, swiftly walking away with your daughter babbling and cooing away in his arms, and you start to say something but he’s already out of reach. “Gerald!” He calls, “Bring in those bags from the car, my good man!”  
  
“Yes, sir,” you hear Gerald say before he’s walking into with too many bags to count dangling on his arms.   
  
“They’re mostly clothes,” your fathers informs you, “A few toys, video games, some socks, coloring books, teething toys. Hell, I don’t even remember all the crap I just bought.” 

You retract in shock, never having heard your father say hell _or_ crap in such a casual way in your entire life.   
  
“Sweet!” Your oldest son says.  
  
“So cool!” Your youngest son adds.  
  
“What do you say, boys?” Sam asks them in his dad voice, raising his eyebrows and giving them a pointed look.  
  
“Thank you!” They say in unison, running up to your father and Gerald, gushing about all the cool stuff your dad pulls out of the bags for them as he balances your daughter on his hip.   
  
“Won’t you stay for dinner?” Your mother asks, hope dancing in her eyes. “We have so much to catch up on!”  
  
“But don’t you and dad typically have dinner at the club on Saturdays?” You ask, remembering the many a weekend you were forced to spend at that stupid country club growing up, reluctantly kissing ass and sneaking mojitos when your parents weren’t looking.   
  
“Oh no,” your father shakes his head quickly, holding up a rubber giraffe teething toy for your daughter, “We stopped going there years ago.”  
  
“Huh?” You reply lamely. “But…why?” You ask, shocked entirely since you recall the club being the biggest facet in their lives that they used to think the world of.  
  
“We got tired of all the _drama_ ,” your mother says, waving a hand in nonchalance, “And the people there are so vapid and boring—my _god_ —it was like hanging out with broken record players that talk about the same stuff over and over and _over_ again.” She huffs like she’s exhausted, making you laugh. “After you left, we started seeing how vain and idiotic some of things we did were,” she explains, “It was really an eye opener.”  
  
“Oh,” you say, feeling a little guilty.  
  
“Plus,” your father pipes in, “It felt pretty good to knock Alexander’s smug little lights out. Wish I could go back in time and do it all over again.”  
  
“Whoa, wait,” you whirl around to face him, “You did _what_?”  
  
“I hit him,” your father shrugs nonchalantly.  
  
“At least someone did,” Sam laughs with your dad, the two of them jostling each other around like macho men, still careful not to scare your daughter who clings to your father’s collar with a balled up fist, slobbering all over her new toy. “He’s lucky he never met me,” Sam crosses his arms over his chest, “He woulda been breathin’ through a coffee straw by the time I got finished with him.”  
  
Your father agrees with a laugh. “So, needless to say,” he grins at you, “We and the Donahue’s no longer speak. Not that I’ve really noticed the absence all that much.” His nose crinkles in distaste. “They were a rather horrible bunch of people, the whole lot of them.”  
  
You’re at a loss for words. “Who _are_ you people?!” You cry humorously.  
  
“Don’ be silly, mama,” your youngest son giggles from the floor where he’s connected a long train of train-cars to play with, neither your mother or father caring that he’s rolling them all around the shiny hardwood floors. “They’re gramma and grampa!” He says with a dimpled grin.  
  
You look at Sam with a look that screams _whose freakin’ kid is this_ , shaking your head and rolling your eyes. Sam just laughs and wraps an arm around your shoulders.  
  
“Oh! I almost forgot,” your father says, “I stopped by that Swiss chocolate shop in town and got a whole bunch of treats for everyone.”  
  
“Daddy, I don’t think—”  
  
“You guys want some?” He ignores your warning to ask the boys, who immediately shout loudly in approval and hurry to follow him to the kitchen before you can say absolutely not—because you _know_ what happens when you mix your kids with too much sugar.  
  
“Daddy, wait!” You cry as you jog after them, “Don’t do it! They’re not as cute as you think!”  
  
Sam looks at you in mock horror as he quickly follows behind and hisses, “We are _leaving_ them here!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what ya think! You can also keep up with this series at justcallmelosechester.tumblr.com


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